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Whackin', Splatterin' and Ready for the Weekend

I love October. The leaves begin to change on the highest mountain tops, slowly draping the sloped sides with a blanket of color, a bit further down each day. The temperatures are perfect, most of the tourists are gone and Frog Pond Holler slowly returns to something resembling normal, if not boring as hell.

I left the Asylum yesterday at 2. At the first of the month, we have to wait until accounting changes the date to the next month before we can enter anything and I discovered that I had over 40 hours of vacation saved up this year.

Use it or lose it.

So, I went home, cranked up the spiffy new electric weed wacker doohicky and set out to groom and manicure the dog lot. Since my trashy-big-boobed-cousin-with-the-lazy-eye and her N.Y.-internet-pickup-husband have taken over Aunt Moses' mowing business, my yard is hot mess. The weeds in the dog lot were up to my calf in places and the english ivy had spread down off the bank, invading a few feet into the yard.

And yes, I realize this has probably contributed to my itchy dog... but...

Back when Aunt Moses ran the work center for developmentally disabled adults and all 25 of them used to converge upon my yard during my lunch hour every Wednesday, looking like an army invasion of riding lawnmowers and other assorted weaponry, I had purchased a nice, gas powered weed wacky thingie, one that I paid a pretty penny for. It was.. as we say.. a doozy. I bought it to use behind the house because I didn't like all those people back there getting the dogs all riled up and Ozzy wasn't exactly a people pooch.

I used it twice before Ma took it upon herself to up and give it to Aunt Moses. Just gave it to her. I didn't even know it was gone until I went to use it the next time.

Can you say pissed off?

I swore I'd never spend another dollar on anything to work in the yard, but last week the Amazon took Sammy to the vet for his shots and we started a new treatment for his skin problems. He hasn't scratched hardly once in the past week. He's acting like a dog again, running around, attacking the cat and being the big goof he used to be. In the mean time, I cringed everytime I opened the door to let him out, watching him walk through grass that was rubbing against his belly.. and other things.

That's when it hit me. I'm 43 gosh dang years old. If I want to buy a weed wacker to cut the grass in my own feckin' backyard, I will. And? If anyone gets a wild hair up their ass and tries to give it away, I'll go buy another and beat 'em with it.

Okay.. not really... but it felt good to say it.

I'm not sure if it's the noggin doc or my new relationship with mind balancing pharmaceuticals, but I've been having a lot of, "Wait.. what the hell have you been thinking... snap out of it," moments lately. And it feels good. For me anyway. I'm not sure Ma's enjoying my newly discovered sanity.

But anyway, I ran to Lowes when I got paid and got a little, yet lethal electric weed wacker. By 4pm yesterday, grass, poison oak and dog poo was splattering and flying into the air all around our backyard, leaving me feeling oddly empowered.. and itchy as a mother fecker.

I didn't quite get finished, but it's Friday and I've got all weekend.